“The Old Forest” by Anonymous

Théodore Rousseau, The Forest in Winter at Sunsetca

The Old Forest
The Crayon, Sept. 5, 1855

One fine day, while idly straying,
Came I to an ancient wood,
Where the trees were fast decaying,
In their realms of solitude.
Mystic cypresses were stooping,
Dimly in the weird-like gloom;
Shadowy boughs were lowly drooping,
Like the willows o’er a tomb.

Lofty pines and oaks primeval,
Upward high their branches bore;
Rugged yews that seemed coeval,
With the “saintly days of yore,”
Stood in solemn silence, saying
Rustling leaves that fluttered low
On the dark boughs dimly waving
O’er their sepulchres below.

Long I wandered ’till the slanting
Sunbeams bathed in misty gold,
The forest and a scene enchanting
To my vision did unfold.
Streaming richly through the pendant
Spray that waved in motley-green;
Lighting up each nook resplendent,
‘Till it looked a magic scene.

Long I gazed with admiration
On the woodland thus arrayed,
Changing in its transformation
Glorious tints of light and shade.
Twilight shadows gathered round me,
Still I lingered in the wood,
Chained by beauty’s spell that bound me
To its peaceful solitude.

Shadows deepened into sable
Hues that haunt the rayless night;
Scarcely longer was I able
To discern a ray of light:
Till at last the wild charm spurning,
As the night still darker grew,
Homeward then my footsteps turning,
To the forest bade adieu.

 

 

“Morning” and “Night” by Anonymous

This was reprinted several times in the 19th century. The source I’ve used is Blackwood’s Edinburgh Magazine, February 1825. I’ve no clue who the author is, though I’d like to know.

MORNING.
There is a parting in Night’s murky veil,
A soft, pale light is in the eastern sky;
It steals along the ocean tremblingly,
Like distant music wafted on the gale.
Stars, one by one, grow faint, and disappear,
Like waning tapers, when the feast is o’er;
While, girt with rolling mists, the mountains hoar
High o’er the darkling glens their tops uprear.
There is a gentle rustling in the grove,
Though winds be hush’d; it is the stir of wings,
And now the sky-lark from her nest up springs,
Trilling, in accents clear, her song of love;
And now heaven’s gate in golden splendour burns—
Joy to the earth, the glorious Sun returns!

NIGHT.
I love thee when thou comest, glorious Sun
Out of the chambers of thy watery dwelling;
I love thee when thy early beam is telling
Of worlds awaken’d, and man’s toil begun;
I love thee, too, when o’er the western hill
Thy parting ray in golden hue is stealing,
For then the gush of soft and pensive feeling
Speaks to the labouring bosom, peace, be still;
But thou art not so lovely to mine eye
At morning, balmy eve, or busy noon,
As is thy gentle sister, the pale Moon,
Which shineth now in yon unclouded sky:
Then let me forth, to drink her mellow ray;
Who would exchange it for the gaudy day?

R. G.

From Alfred B. Street’s “The Walk and the Pic-nic”

From “The Walk and the Pic-nic“
By Alfred B. Street
From The Poems of Alfred B. Street
Full poem here

…On this lap of green grass the white cloth is display’d,
A maple bends over its golden-streak’d shade;
We place cup and trencher—the viands are spread,
Whilst a pile of pine knots flame a pillar of red:
We slice the rich lemon, the gifts of the spring
Bubbling up in its cool sandy basin we bring,
The white glistening sugar, the butter, like gold
And the fruits of the garden, our baskets unfold,—
The raspberry bowl-shaped—the jet tiny cone
Of the blackberry, pluck’d from the thickets are strown:
All grace the grass-table—our cups mantle free
With the dark purple coffee, and light amber tea,
Wood, water, and bank, tongue the laugh and the jest,
And the goddess of mirth reigns supreme in each breast…

“Morning” by Thomas Dunn English

A Gorge in the Mountains (Kauterskill Clove) by Sanford Robinson Gifford

Morning.
By Thomas Dunn English
From The Casket Vol. 16, 1840, pg. 151

Morn on the placid landscape. Nature woke,
And from her long night’s slumber proudly broke.
Gazed, smiling gazed on mountain, and on dale,
And tossed unto the skies her misty veil.
The sun was there to glad the morning’s birth,
And empty living fire upon the earth.
The deer stole slily from his hiding-place.
Basked in the beams, nor panted for the chase.
The squirrel leaped from rock to rock in pride;
The rabbit pattered up the mountain side;
While mingled with the wild-bee’s hum was heard
The whirring of the gaudy humming-bird;—
That painted insect of the feathered tribe,
Whom all can wonder at, but none describe,—
The red-head woodpecker with steady stroke,
Commenced his labor on the hollow oak;
The feathered choir with rapture-swelling throats,
Began in concert their melodious notes;
While from the low-growth, where it deep lay hid,
Came the shrill clarion of the katy did.
In deep delight creation seemed to swim,
And pour thanksgiving in their matin hymn.

“Thoughts In Autumn” by Anna Peyre Dinnies

 

Autumn Meadows by George Inness

 

Thoughts In Autumn
Anna Peyre Dinnies
From the Poets and Poetry of America by Rufus Griswold, 1842, pg. 385.

Yes, thou art welcome, Autumn! all thy changes,
From fitful gloom, to sunny skies serene,
The starry vaults, o’er which the charm’d eye ranges,
And cold, clear moonlight, touching every scene
With a peculiar sadness, are sweet things,
To which my heart congenial fondly clings.

There is a moral in the wither’d wreaths
And faded garlands that adorn thy bowers;
Each blighted shrub, chill’d flower, or sear’d leaf breathes
Of parted days, and brighter by-gone hours,
Contracting with the present dreary scene
Spring’s budding beauties, pleasures which have been.